INTERPRETATIONS 


INTERPRETATIONS 

A  BOOK   OF  FIRST  POEMS 

BY 

ZOE   AKINS 


NEW   YORK 

MITCHELL    KENNERLEY 
1912 


Many  of  these  poems  have  been  reprinted 
with  the  kind  permission  respectively  of  the 
following  magazines  : — Harpers  Monthly \ 
The  Forum,  The  Mirror,  The  Century r,  The 
International,  The  Theatre,  and  others. 


PRINTED    BY    THE    RIVERSIDE    PRESS    LIMITED 
EDINBURGH 


TO 

"ONE  LYRIC  WOMAN" 
MY  FRIEND,  JULIA  MARLOWE 

I    DEDICATE    THIS 
BOOK    OF    FIRST   VERSE 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

MARY    MAGDALEN 

I.    IN    HER    HOUSE  .  .  .  .11 

II.    ON    A    MOUNT     .....  23 

III.    AT    THE    CROSS  .....  27 

SAPPHO    TO    A    SWALLOW    ON    THE    GROUND             .  31 

THIS    IS    MY    HOUR 

1 34 

II 35 

m 36 

THE    COMEDIENNE 38 

THE    TRAGEDIENNE 40 

THE  PERFECT  VOICE  .  .  .  .  .41 
THE  PRINCESS  DANCES  .....  43 
THE  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK  ....  45 
A  CHILD'S  SHAKESPERE — 

I.    AS    YOU    LIKE    IT  .  .  .47 

II.    ROMEO    AND    JULIET  ....          48 

III.    ANTONY    AND    CLEOPATRA  .  .          49 

7 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CALYPSO  .  .  .  .  .  .  .51 

CIRCE    ........          57 

ODE    ON    BEAUTY     ......          60 

A    PROFILE      .......          64 

ONE    WOMAN  ......          65 

LOTUS-FLOWER          ......          66 

TO    A    FRIEND  .  .  .  .  .  .67 

IN    MEMORY    OF    SWINBURNE     ....          68 

THE    DEAD    AVIATOR  .  .  .  .  .71 

EMPIRE    D' AMOUR 73 

SONG    FOR    THE    BELOVED  ....          82 

THE  KING'S  KISS  ......       84 

THE  QUEEN'S  JESTER     .....       89 

I  AM  THE  WIND   ......       91 

TO  A  FAIR  WOMAN         .....       92 

ODE  ON  ANOTHER'S  HAPPINESS        ...       94 
PIERROT  AND  THE  PARASOL  ....       97 

BAL  MASQUE 99 

VILLANELLE  OF  CITY  AND  COUNTRY        .         .     101 
VILLANELLE  OF  MEMORY         .         ,         .         .103 
WHERE  JOY  PASSED  BY  .          .          .          .105 

ASK  ME  NO  MORE  .....      107 

IMPROVISATION      .         .         .         .         .         .109 

REMEMBERING  THEE      .         .         .         .         .111 

FROM  THEE  SO  FAR       .          .          .          .          .113 


CONTENTS 

THE    SISTERHOOD  I    A    TRAGEDY 

THE  CELIBATE 
THE  WIFE  . 
THE  COURTESAN  . 


.        114 
.        116 

118 


ERRATA 

p.  34,  line  5,  for  "  brown  "  read  "  blown  ' 
p.  61,  line  G,for  "head*'  read  "hand  " 
p.  69,  line  5,  for  "  Dost "  read  «  Does  " 


MARY  MAGDALEN 


IN    HER    HOUSE 

LET  there  be  light !   Bring  lamps !    Bring  flowers  ! 
Bring  wine ! 

Lock  out  this  dream-accursed  aching  dusk ! 

Send  slaves  to  bid  the  guests ;  lay  out  my  robes, 

Vermilion-coloured.,  and  my  golden  veils ; 

Strew  all  my  jewels  where  mine  eyes  may  choose 

The  deepest  amethysts  or  palest  pearls 

Or  such  rich  rubies  as  commemorate 

The  loves  of  kings.     Pour  forth  our  pomp   to- 
night, 

And  let  our  banquet  shame  this  beggared  land. 

Go,   staring    girl, — your    great    eyes    make    me 
laugh ! 

ii 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

And  do  my  bidding  swiftly ;  let  this  house 

Be  decked  with  garlands, — garlands  everywhere  ! 

Prepare  the  feast ;  set  forth  the  cups  of  gold 

That  Caesar  had  from  Carthage ;  let  the  plate 

Be  all  of  silver ;  and  with  rosy  fruit 

Heap  high  the  copper  trays  from  Syracuse. 

Fill  alabaster  urns  with  fragrant  spice  ; 

And  bid  the  serving-girls  unloose  their  hair, 

Wearing  white  kirtles  knotted  Roman-wise 

And    twined    with    flower-wreaths    round    their 

tender  limbs. 

Then  when  this  sickly  twilight  time  has  passed 
Send  in  to  me  the  Greek  Autonoe. 
Out,  slave !  And  hasten  .  .  . 

When  the  guests  have  come 
They  shall  see  Mary  as  they  saw  her  once, 
Before  her  soul  grew  strange  and  dreams  took 
hold 

12 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

On    her    mad    brain.  ...  To    love    oneself   is 

best.  .  .  . 

I  loved  my  subtle  face  that  said  to  men 
Whatever  it  was  bade  by  mood  of  mine. 
I  loved  my  movements,  insolent  and  proud, 
For  insolent  and  proud  my  spirit  was. 
My   voice,  my  words,  my  thoughts, — my  life  I 

loved ; 

And  all  my  vibrant  nights,  and  all  my  days 
That  rose  like  fountain- waters  in  the  sun 
And  fell  into  the  silent  jar  of  Time, 
And  troubled  me  no  more.     I  was  myself. 
My  life  was  mine,  the  well-tuned  instrument 
From  which  I  drew  the  harmonies  that  beat 
Against  my  soul  for  lyric  utterance. 
No  vision-seeing  sculptor  of  the  Greeks 
Hews  with  more  care  to  change  his  dream  to 

stone 

Than  I  have  wrought  to  make  my  whole  life  tell 
13 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

Of  visions,  and  of  dreams, — of  my  desire 
For  life  and  love  and  beauty, — and  my  need 
Of  saying  what  I  am,  and  what  I  seek. 
The  endless  wonder  in  a  poet's  heart, 
At  all  things  strange  and  fair  and  passionate, 
Surged  in  the  cry  my  youth  sent  up  to  life. 
I  asked — and  asked, — what  should  a  woman  do 
What  should  a  woman  be,  who  would  not  live 
Dumbly  from  birth  to  death,  and  leave  no  sign 
That  she  had  come  and  gone,  save  newer  lives 
Sprung  from  her  own  to  linger,  and  repeat 
This  vanity,  futility,  disease  ; 
For  I  who  walk  this  way  but  once,  I  said, — 
I  will  not  be,  while  yet  I  live  and  feel, 
Crushed  by  the  everlasting  weight  of  years . 
For  when  I  die,  and  am  no  more — I  die. 
But  till  the  grave-worms  gnaw  and  leave  me  dust 
I  live  !     Some  yearning  in  my  soul  arose, 
And  I  desired  to  mix  among  the  stars 
14 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

And  kindle  some  bright  flame  to  be  my  sign 
When  I — borne  outward  by  the  ebb  of  Time — 
Felt  in  my  face  the  shattering  wind  of  Death, 
And  gave  my  body  to  the  sifting  dust ! 

The  immortality  of  souls  to  me 

Was  a  vain  dream  and  bitter,  vexing  those 

Who  were  afraid  of  life  and  longed  for  rest, 

And  yet  who  cried  against  oblivion, — 

As  weary  children  fret  to  stay  awake, 

And  at  the  same  time  sleep.     Life  after  death  ? 

Why  else  the  repetition  of  the  Spring  ? 

This  was  the  thought  the  wise  men  pondered  on  ; 

And  every  shore  around  the  winding  sea 

Sounded  the  question  to  the  empty  skies, 

Asking  the  Future  if  the  spirit  lived 

To  reach  a  final  heaven,  vast  and  calm, 

A  place  of  beauty  and  enduring  peace. 

From  such  a  mystical  eternity 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

I    shuddered  back;    for  though  the   soul  lived 

on, 

Would  it  not  mourn  for  its  lost  mortal  veil 
Of  sheltering  hair,  perchance,  and  fleeting  grace 
Of  lips  and  eyes  and  softly  moving  limbs — 
Once    so    well    loved?     Man    draws    a     heavy 

breath, 

And  dreamless  sleep  should  be  the  end  of  life. 
I  knew  not  whence  I  came,  nor  where  I  went, 
But  out  of  the  keen  energy  of  thought 
Was  I  resolved  to  make  my  life  a  thing 
That  should  remain  in  memory  of  man, 
As  written  lore  remains,  or  monuments 
Builded  of  bronze  and  marble,  or  made  rich 
Of  gold  and  silver.     I  should  make  myself 
The  masterpiece  of  my  imagining, 
And  leave  my  fame  to  linger  as  a  myth 
When  I  should  be  no  more,  and  no  more  know 

Pleasure  nor  passion,  nor  the  sun  nor  moon. 
16 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

The  murmur  in  the  sea-shell  matters  less 
To  crying  oceans  shaken  by  the  wind, 
Than  do  the  rumours  of  my  shame  to  me ; 
For  many  name  me  shameful  in  the  land, — 
I,  who  have  made  myself  the  sole  fair  thing 
In  this  lone  loathsome  desert, — I,  who  am 
The  lily  of  the  valley,  and  the  rose 
That  blooms  by  Sharon  ;  I,  the  woman  scorned, 
Am  too  imperial  for  scorn  to  touch  ! 

For  what  is  heaven  but  beauty  ?     What  is  fair, 
Save  what  the  mind  desires  ?     And  my  desire 
Has  been  to  live  as  some  wise  idle  queen, 
Who  for  a  space  of  numbered  days  and  nights 
Knows  that  her  throne  is  hers,  her  kingdom  safe 
Against  invasion,  and  is  not  afraid. 
And  thus  I  live ;  great  rooms  within  my  house 
Are  rich  with  treasures  from  all  travelled  ways ; 

And  from  the  North  the  galleys  bring  to  me 
B  17 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

The  fairest  girls  for  slaves,  the  wisest  men 
And  most  far-famed  for  lovers ;  and  my  mind, 
With  much  strange  knowledge  and  the  conscious- 
ness 

Of  other  minds,  has  ranged  afar  in  life, 
And  found  life  fair.     My  body,  like  a  harp 
Set  in  a  wind,  has  thrilled  with  many  tunes 
And  with  the  burden  and  the  ache  of  joy, 
That  surges  like  a  song  and  ebbs  like  sobs ; 
But  there  has  been  some  thing  as  delicate 
As  a  girl's  touch  in  every  kiss  I  gave, — 
Some    star    still    shining    through    the    blinding 

storm, 

Some  folded  flower  unopened  by  the  sun ! 
Shy,  wistful,  and  aloof,  my  soul  has  stood, 
Untouched  by  passion  and  unscared  by  pain, 
Through  all  these  sweet,  brief,  listless,  idle  years. 
The  maiden  whose  pale  face  has  flushed  but  once, 

From  her  sole  lover's  look,  has  lived  less  pure 
18 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

Than  in  the  deep  seclusion  of  my  heart 
I  lived  in  ultimate  virginity, — 
Possessed  by  none,  belonging  to  myself. 
Lovers  have  been  my  friends,  or  slaves, — but  I, 
A  queen  unto  whose  kingdom  came  no  king  .  .  . 
Until    He     came.    ...    To     love     oneself    is 
best.  .  .  . 

No  more  the  sapphire  in  a  silver  ring 
Can  give  me  perfect  pleasure,  nor  the  glow 
Of  Tyrian  tapestries  from  Eastern  tents ; 
My  chalice  filled  with  wine  I  leave  untouched  ; 
1  cannot  eat  of  honey  nor  of  wheat, 
Pomegranates,  purple  grapes,  nor  golden  figs. 
No  longer  am  I  glad  to  catch  the  songs 
Autonoe  for  ever  sings  of  love  ; 
It  does  not  bring  me  peace  to  watch  the  wind 
Bow  down  the  olive  grove,  like  some  great  hand 
Drawn  o'er  the  tree-tops  as  o'er  bending  heads. 
19 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

What  if  my   hands   be   white, — mine   eyes  like 

pools 

Made  deeper  by  the  shade  of  standing  reeds  ? 
What  if  my  house  be  still  and  beautiful  ? 
My  slaves  as  fair  and  fleet  and  soft  of  foot 
As  Aphrodite's  doves  ?     What  if  I  live 
As  long  in  legend  as  that  Spartan  queen 
For  whom  a  war  was  made  in  perished  Troy, 
And  whose  gold  hair  shall  flame  when  stars  are 

dark? 

I  care  no  more  to  watch  the  wandering  moon 
Launched  like  a  burning  galley  in  the  sky, 
Or  swinging  like  a  lantern  through  the  clouds, — 
And  from  the  even-hour  I  hide  my  head.  .  .  . 

Ay  .  .  .  from  the  even-hour  I  shrink  and  hide, 
And  strive  to  shut  out  silence  from  my  heart ; 
And  move  my  thoughts  about,  and  praise  myself, 
And  hurry  past  the  empty  days  and  nights  ; 
20 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

And  then,  in  piteous  ways  prepare  my  house, 
And  wrap  myself  in  garments  pure  and  white, 
As  if  to  welcome  some  most  precious  guest, — 
Who  never  comes  .  .  .  and  then,  remembering, 
I  sit  and  stare  at  nothing,  and  repeat 
His  words  .  .  .  His  words  which  are  like  sudden 

flames, 

Or  chill  fair  lilies,  or  the  dew  at  dusk. 
His  voice  is  as  the  flowing  of  a  river. 
He  promises  the  sick  and  blind  and  halt, 
Who  but  believe  on  Him,  a  place  in  heaven. 
His  eyes  are  clearer  than  unclouded  skies ; 
His  mouth  is  tender  and  compassionate ; 
One  cannot  look  too  long  upon  His  face, 
To  humbly  touch  His  garment  at  the  hem 
Is  to  be  healed  an  instant  of  the  world. 

The  God  He  calls  His  Father  I  deny. 

His  mission  is  a  romance  and  a  dream. 
21 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

His  promise  of  eternal  life  I  scorn. 

He  teaches  that  the  body  leaves  the  grave 

And  lives  for  ever — as  the  modern  Greeks 

Dare  but  surmise  the  soul,  released,  might  live ; 

And  yet  with  fasting  He  has  scourged  the  flesh, 

And  has  denied  the  very  touch  of  hands 

With  which  the  wayfarers  of  earth  are  cheered ; 

And  to  the  faultless  beauty  and  the  joy 

Belonging  to  the  body,  he  is  blind ; 

If  it  is  but  a  vessel  for  the  wine, 

A  lamp  set  here  in  life  to  hold  the  flame, 

Why  should  its  worthless  weight  be  drawn  from 

earth 
To  join  its  winged  mate,  the  separate  soul  ? 

Sweet  were  the  nights  I  talked  till  dawn  with 

friends, 

And  sweeter  still  the  nights  that  breathed  romance 
Upon  the  easy  wonder  of  light  love  ; 

22 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  by  starlight  fell 
And  soothed  with  pleasure  life's  long  loneliness, 
Leaving  indifference,  and  never  shame 
Or  restless  grief  to  follow,  or  the  scorn 
Of  one's  own  self  for  giving  overmuch — 
Mary,  remember  !     Shame  and  grief  and  scorn 
Once  visited  that  darkened  room  of  life, 
So  long  ago, — when  passion-scourged  and  weak 
You  lay  with  love,  still-born,  against  your  breast, 
And  wept  that  once,  that  night  in  Magdala, — 
When  Judas  with  a  kiss  betrayed  your  youth. 


ON  A  MOUNT 

Am  I  myself?     Am  I  that  courtesan 
Who  left  the  city  of  Capernaum 
When  this  same  perfect  moon  was  but  a  shell 
23 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

Of  slender  light  in  this  same  perfect  sky  ? 

The  dead  space  is  not  filled  with  many  days 

From  then  till  now  .  .  .  but  I  have  followed  far. 

My  face  within  the  mirror  of  a  well 

Seems  as  a  face  I  never  saw  before.   .  .  . 

Among  all  women  was  I  once  unique  ; 

Great  ladies  asked  my  friendship,  and  old  men 

Too  grey  for  love,  but  given  to  long  thoughts. 

Master  and  student  mingled  at  my  feast. 

Joanna  journeyed  oft*  from  Herod's  court 

To  stay  within  my  house  ;  and  once  there  came 

The  mad  princess  herself, — wan  Salome, 

Who  never  speaks,  but  dreams  with  frightened 

eyes 

And  lips  that  stir  as  if  to  take  a  kiss.  .  .  . 
The  world  grows  strange.     A  child  sleeps  in  mine 

arms; 
Its  mother  lies  in  prayer  upon  the  grass. 

The  lepers  gather  yonder  by  the  road. 
24 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

A  starving  beggar  breaks  his  bread  with  me  ; 
And  there,  so  brightly  pale,  with  head  bowed 

down, 

His  mother  sits ;  it  is  a  lovely  thing 
To  see  her  listen  to  His  words,  made  meek 
For  very  pride ;  sometimes  she  seems  afraid, 
And  wonders  at  her  Son,  but  she  is  kind, 
And  wears  the  scarf  I  gave  her  while  she  slept. 
Joanna  too  is  here,  and  rests  her  head, 
Weeping,  upon  her  arm,  against  my  knee.  .  .  . 

Now  coming  toward  our  motley  multitude, 
Surrounded  by  the  Twelve,  the  Master  moves. 
Day  dawning  in  a  vale  is  not  so  fair 
As  His  approach.  .  .  .  He  speaks.  ...  I  must 

arise 

And  go  my  way.  .  .  .  His  kingdom  is  of  heaven ; 
My  kingdom  is  of  earth.  ...  I  will  return. 
This  pain  I  will  not  bear.     I  must  arise 
25 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

And  seek  the  self  that  I  have  lost  through  Him. 
I  am  grown  weary  of  my  soul's  delight 
Before  his  face.  ...  I  was  myself.  ...  I  am 
A  shadow  following  His  outstretched  hand.  .  .  . 
I  will  lie  down  amid  the  winding-sheets 
Within  the  tomb  of  life,  and  leave  no  more 
The  darkened  chamber  for  the  searing  light. 
Farewell,    Thou     Son    of    Man !      Farewell,    O 
Christ ! 

(Ah,  hadst  Thou  looked  but  once  into  mine  eyes  !) 
Thou  art  the  Lily  in  a  field  of  weeds. 
Thou  art  the  Stranger  who  hast  come  and  gone, 
And  left  my  house  a  sad  and  empty  place. 
Thou  art  the  Rain  that  nevermore  shall  drench 
The  fading  grasses  on  a  parched  plain. 
Farewell !     I  am  grown  strangely  still  and  strong. 
I  could  pluck  out  mine  own  offending  eye, 

Or  from  this  arm  cut  this  offending  hand ; 
26 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

I  could  go  hence  and  let  my  dearest  dead 
Bury  their  dead, — not  looking  backward  once. 
Thus  do  I  go !  I  have  plucked  out  my  love. 
I  go  forth  free.     Thy  voice  I  hear  no  more.  .  . 
But  I  shall  never  sleep  a  dreamless  sleep, 
Or  move  again,  unhaunted,  through  my  house, 
Or  lift  my  head,  or  laugh,  or  be  at  peace — 
O  Prince  of  Peace — I  would  that  Thou  wert- 
dead  ! 


AT     THE     CROSS 

Thy   mother   weeps.     The   watchers  bend   with 

prayer. 

The  soldiers  groan  and  ask  what  they  have  done. 
The  skies  are  dark.     They  say  the  Veil  is  rent. 

The  earth  is  shaken ;  and  the  people  wail 

27 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

And  gnash  their  teeth,  and  call  upon  the  hills 
To  cover  them  and  hide  them  from  their  God. 
The  tumult  mingles  with  an  awful  hush. 
There  is  a  mystic  flame  about  the  Cross. 
I  do  not  weep      I  neither  pray  nor  moan, — 
I,  who  bade  Judas  send  Thee  to  Thy  death. 

My  swift  remorse  has  passed  into  a  peace 

Beyond  mine  understanding.  ...  In  Thine  eyes, 

That  rested  on  the  whole  world  as  they  closed, 

I  read  the  look  that  knew  and  pardoned  all. 

O  Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul, — I  faint 

From  some  sheer  happiness  that  trembles  through 

My  spirit  like  strange  music !  I  am  free  ! 

My  life,  love- wrecked  and  broken,  is  made  whole. 

The  shackles  that  I  bound  about  myself 

No  more  are  heavy.     See  !     I  rise  and  kiss 

Thy  holy  feet  this  once,  in  holiness. 

Thy  kingdom  is  my  kingdom.     As  a  child 

28 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

That  does  a  parent's  bidding,  I  will  do 
As  Thou  hast  taught  on  earth  ;  and  if  I  dwell 
With  Thee  for  ever  in  Thy  Father's  house — 
I  shall  not  find  eternity  too  long. 

Lo,  I  have  drained  the  cup  !     I  am  the  Bride  ! 
Lo,  I  have  purged  the  Temple  as  with  fire ! 
With  pleasure  I  have  mortified  the  flesh ; 
And  pride  has  scourged  my  soul.  .  .  .  And  now 

I  go 

Forth  from  the  Presence  of  the  Crucified, 
To  wear  the  heavy  raiment  of  the  blest. 
I  shall  put  on  the  robe  of  sacrifice, 
And  wrap  me  in  the  veil  of  chastity. 
My  faith  shall  be  the  band  about  my  brow, 
And  poverty  the  sandals  on  my  feet. 
My  drink  shall  be  the  water  from  the  well 
Of  sorrow,  and  my  bread  humility ; 

And  Love  shall  be  my  staff,  when  in  His  name, 
29 


MARY   MAGDALEN 

I  wander  on  a  mission,  long  and  sweet, — 
Sheltered  from  sun  and  heat  or  wind  and  cold 
For  ever  by  the  Shadow  of  the  Cross, 
Whereon  I  saw  my  Bridegroom  die  for  me. 


SAPPHO   TO    A    SWALLOW   ON   THE 
GROUND 

For  Sara  Teasdale 

WHAT  wakes  the  tender  grasses  where  I  lie  ? 
What  small  soft  presence  stirs  and  startles  by  ? 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
Why  have  you  left  the  tree-tops  and  the  sky  ? 

The  grass  is  faded  by  the  sun  and  rain, 
The  Summer  passes,  Autumn  comes  again, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
And,  bitter-sweet,  love  trembles  into  pain. 

The  heart  of  earth  grows  weary,  and  her  eyes 
Are  closed  ;  her  lips  are  tuned  to  languid  sighs, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
And  in  my  heart  the  singing  sobs  and  dies.  .  .  . 


SAPPHO   TO   A   SWALLOW 

Night-long,  by  blown  seas,  musical  with  wind, 
I  flutter  like  a  lost  child,  weak  and  blind, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
After  the  mother  whom  she  cannot  find.  .  .  . 

Through    apple-boughs    the    murmurous  breezes 

sing, 
As  waters  from  a  cool  deep-shaded  spring, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
And  slumber  streams  from  leaves  left  quivering. 

Have  you  grown  weary  of  the  heaven's  height, 
The  hidden  stars,  the  vivid  depths  of  light, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
As  love  grows  weary  of  the  long  swift  flight  ? 

You  do  not  answer  but  your  wings  are  spread, 
And  past  the  topmost  apple,  sweet  and  red, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
In  flight  and  song  you  vanish  overhead  ! 
32 


SAPPHO   TO   A   SWALLOW 

I,  too,  will  give  my  heart  unto  the  heaven ; 
Phaon  shall  find  me  through  the  dusk  of  ev'n, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
Shaken  with  kisses  ere  they  have  been  given ! 

As  from  the  swarming  hive  in  nuptial  flight 
The  queen  ascends,  all  golden  fire  and  light, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, 
On  wings  of  ecstasy  I  rise  to-night ! 

But  to  the  earth  my  flight  shall  not  return, 
For  when  the  sun-like  flame  has  ceased  to  burn, 

Swallow,  O  swallow, — 
The  Lesbian  Sea  shall  be  my  funeral  urn. 


33 


"THIS   IS   MY   HOUR" 

For  Countess  V — 


THE  ferries  ply  like  shuttles  in  a  loom, 
And  many  barques  come  in  across  the  bay 

To  lights  and  bells  that  signal  through  the  gloom 
Of  twilight  grey  ; 

And  like  the  biown  soft  flutter  of  the  snow 

The  wide-winged  sea-birds  droop  from  closing 
skies, 

And  hover  near  the  water,  circling  low, 
As  the  day  dies. 

The  city  like  a  shadowed  castle  stands, 
Its  turrets  indistinctly  touching  night ; 
34 


"THIS   IS   MY   HOUR" 

Like  earth-born  stars  far  fetched  from  faerie  lands, 
Its  lamps  are  bright. 

This  is  my  hour, — when  wonder  springs  anew 
To  see  the  towers  ascending,  pale  and  high, 

And  the  long  seaward  distances  of  blue, 
And  the  dim  sky. 


This  is  my  hour,  between  the  day  and  night ; 
The  sun  has  set  and  all  the  world  is  still, 
The  afterglow  upon  the  distant  hill 

Is  as  a  holy  light. 

This  is  my  hour,  between  the  sun  and  moon ; 
The  little  stars  are  gathering  in  the  sky, 
There  is  no  sound  but  one  bird's  startled  cry,- 

One  note  that  ceases  soon. 
35 


"THIS   IS   MY   HOUR" 

The  gardens  and,  far  off,  the  meadow-land, 
Are  like  the  fading  depths  beneath  a  sea, 
While  over  waves  of  misty  shadows  we 

Drift  onward,  hand  in  hand. 

This  is  my  hour,  that  you  have  called  your  own  ; 
Its  hushed  beauty  silently  we  share, — 
Touched  by  the  wistful  wonder  in  the  air 

That  leaves  us  so  alone. 

in 

In  rain  and  twilight  mist  the  city  street, 

Hushed  and  half-hidden,  might  this  instant  be 
A  dark  canal  beneath  our  balcony, 

Like  one  in  Venice,  Sweet. 

The  street-lights  blossom,  star-wise,  one  by  one  ; 
A  lofty  tower  the  shadows  have  not  hid 
Stands  out — part  column  and  part  pyramid — 

Holy  to  look  upon. 

36 


"THIS   IS   MY  HOUR" 

The  dusk  grows  deeper,  and  on  silver  wings 
The  twilight  flutters  like  a  weary  gull 
Toward  some  sea-island,  lost  and  beautiful, 

Where  a  sea-syren  sings. 

"  This  is  my  hour,"  you  breathe  with  quiet  lips  ; 
And  filled  with  beauty,  dreaming  and  devout, 
We  sit  in  silence,  while  our  thoughts  go  out — 

Like  treasure-seeking  ships. 


37 


THE  COMEDIENNE 

"  MINE    OWN    VINEYARD    HAVE    I    NOT    KEPT  " 

For  Henrietta  Crosman 

SHE  passed  our  vineyard  through  one  winter  day, 
And    with    her    magic     laughter     summoned 

Spring ; 
Whereat  a  thousand  birds  began  to  sing, 

And  starry  flowers  sprang  to  light  her  way  ; 

And  now  where  once  she  paused  to   smile  and 

stay 

A  little  while,  the  Autumn  comes  to  bring 
The  days  of  festival  and  harvesting, — 

The  winepress  waits  for  dancing  feet  at  play. 

But  in  the  vin'eyard  that  she  calls  her  own 
No  purple  grapes  hang  heavy  on  the  vine, 

38 


THE   COMEDIENNE 

No  laughter  lingers  on  her  listless  lips, — 
She  stands  within  a  mist,  far  off,  alone, — 
No  maidens  sing  to  tread  the  dripping  wine, 
And  from  her  hand  a  faded  garland  slips. 


39 


THE  TRAGEDIENNE 

UPON  a  hill  in  Thessaly 

Stand  broken  columns  in  a  line 
About  a  cold  forgotten  shrine 

Beneath  a  moon  in  Thessaly.  .  .  . 

A  storm  is  riding  on  the  tide, 

Grey  is  the  day,  and  grey  the  sky, 
Far  off  the  seagulls  wheel  and  cry, — 

A  storm  draws  near  upon  the  tide.  .  .  . 

A  city  lifts  its  minarets 

To  winds  that  from  the  desert  sweep, 
And  prisoned  Arab  women  weep 

Below  the  domes  and  minarets.  .  .  . 

But  in  the  world  there  is  no  place 
So  desolate  as  your  tragic  face. 
40 


THE   PERFECT  VOICE 

For  Julia  Marlowe 

HER  voice  is  lovely  as  a  fabled  lyre, 

And   sweet  as   winds  that  sing  the  sea   to 
sleep, 

And  soft  as  mermaids  sighing,  fathoms  deep, 
And  splendid  as  the  singing  of  a  choir, 
Glad  and  melodious  as  any  bird — 

A-thrill  in  song  in  a  leafy  tree-top  steep, 

And  memorable  as  things  that  make  us  weep, 
As  strong  as  armies  when  the  foe  is  heard ! 

Pure  music  falls  and  rises  in  its  sound  ; 

It  thrills  with  changing  moods, — the  Herd -girl's 

grief, 
Viola's  mirth,  or  Juliet's  despair  ; 


THE    PERFECT  VOICE 

Deep  silence  and  a  stillness  fall  around 
Its  golden  tone, — as  when  a  rustling  leaf 

Sends  sound  and  silence  through  the  startled 
air. 


42 


THE   PRINCESS   DANCES 
For  J.  M. 

SALOME  dances  on  the  grass ; 
At  last  her  hour  is  come  to  pass. 

Now,  rainbow-hued,  her  seven  veils 
Are  flung  about  her,  seven  gales 
That  flutter  to  her  body's  grace 
Or  mist-like  rise  before  her  face  ; 
Before  her  deep  mysterious  eyes 
Soft  clouds  of  veil,  concealing,  rise — 
Then  like  a  shower  of  leaves,  wind-blown, 
Or  a  flock  of  little  birds,  half-grown, 
Uncertainly  drift  down  to  lie 
Just  where  her  feet,  anon,  dance  by.  ... 
43 


THE   PRINCESS   DANCES 

She  lifts  her  arms  above  her  head, 

Her  lips  part — though  their  mirth  is  dead ; 

Her  slow  swift  sudden  movements  seem 

Caught  in  the  languor  of  a  dream  ; 

Her  eyes  half  close  as  if  their  gaze 

Found  through  the  Tetrarch's  clamorous  praise 

The  cool  unwilling  lips  of  John 

Descending  close,  her  mouth  upon. 

Her  breath  sings  faintly  through  the  cry 
Of  music,  that  with  moan  and  sigh 
And  reeling  joy  runs  through  the  night 
And  lifts  its  voice  against  the  light 
Of  moon  and  stars  that  gleam  above 
The  girl  who  sways  with  hate  and  love, 
And  throw  a  holy  glory  there — 
Upon  the  blood-stained  terrace  where 
Salome  dances  on  the  grass, 
Knowing  her  hour  is  come  to  pass. 
44 


THE   PRINCE   OF   DENMARK 

For  Edward  Hugh  Sothern 

IN  that  brief  instant  when  the  Prince  was  king, 
And  in  his  hand  his  father's  sceptre  shone, 
The  pathos  of  a  devastated  throne 

Left  me  dim-eyed  and  sad  and  quivering. 

No  more  the  vast,  Shakspearean  pomp  of  Death 
Found  me  with  unbowed  head,  hushed  and 

elate 
With  splendid,  tearless  pleasure  o'er  a  fate 

So  nobly  sinking  with  a  ceasing  breath 

The  Prince  was  king;  the  king  was  dead;  the  cries 
Were  hushed ;  the  guns  were  fired  ;  the  soldiers 

bore 

Hamlet  aloft  upon  their  shields  ;  his  line 
45 


THE   PRINCE   OF   DENMARK 

Had  ended ;  and  the  curtain  fell  .  .  .  One  tries 
To  call  me  back  with  laughter  .   .  .  and  I  pour 
My  wine,  and  laugh — and  laugh — and  drink 
my  wine. 


A   CHILD'S   SHAKESPERE 

i 

AS   YOU    LIKE    IT 

I  WAS  a  child,  and  my  green  Shakespere  took 
Into  a  meadow,  underneath  a  tree 
Where  oft'  I  went  to  read,  and  eagerly — 

With  trembling  fingers — opened  my  new  book.  .  .  . 

I  liked  the  pages  and  their  broken  look 

Of  measured  lines.  .  .  .  Then  people  talked 

to  me, 
And  to  each  other, — and  I  seemed  to  see 

A  girl  who  sighed  and  held  a  shepherd's  crook ; 

And  then  I  heard  poor  Celia,  who  was  tired, 
Say — " I  can  go  no  farther"  ;  and  I  felt 
47 


A   CHILD'S   SHAKESPERE 

I  too  had  walked  with  them  until  I  could 
No  farther  go.  ...  Orlando's  verses  fired 
My  heart  with  such  swift  sympathy  I  knelt 
And  prayed  that  things  might  happen  as  they 
should. 


ROMEO    AND    JULIET 


A  river  through  our  meadow  rushed  and  sang ; — 
I  knew  that  it  was  going  to  the  sea ; 
So  when  she  leaned  out  from  her  balcony 

To  talk  to  Romeo,  a  sudden  pang 

Went  through  my  heart, — for  while  I  watched 

him  hang 

Within  a  swaying,  moon-lit,  leafy  tree — 
I  knew  that  they  were /rushing  to  the  sea, 

With  smiles  and  tears,  and  words  that  thrilled 
and  rang ! 


A   CHILD'S   SHAKESPERE 

I  saw  her  bend  above  him  with  soft  grace, 
I  saw  him  swing  himself  up  by  a  bough, 

And  it  was  dark  and  sweet  and  still,  while 

she 
Said  low; — "To  follow  thee — "  and  kissed  his 

face — 
"My    lord,    throughout    the    world!"      She 

trembled  now — 
I  trembled  too,  remembering  the  sea ! 


ANTONY    AND    CLEOPATRA 

"  Of  many  thousand  kisses  the  poor  last "  ; 

Thus,  dying,  spake  the  Roman  to  the  Queen — 
She  whose  undreamed-of  face  mine  eyes  had 
seen 

In  her  pavilion  as  it  floated  past. 
D  49 


A   CHILD'S   SHAKESPERE 

"  Of  many  thousand  kisses  the  poor  last "  ; 

The  Royal  Empress  took  his  hands  between 
Her  hands;  I  saw  her  tears,  and  saw  her 
lean 

Over  his  face  .  .  .  and  felt  the  silence  vast. 

The  death-pale  splendid  queen,  in  white  and  gold 
And  purple,  spake  with  sombre  majesty, — 

The  Eastern  Star  sang  low  against  the  sky  ; 
"  As  soft  as  air,  as  sweet  as  balm," — words  tolled 
Like  mystic    bells  ;  "  What,  should   I  stay  ? '' 

said  she — 
And  with  wide  eyes  I  saw  great  Egypt  die. 


CALYPSO 


YOUR  eyes  were  splendid  when  you  watched  the 

flight 

Of  that  far  sea-bird  vanish  down  the  wind 
Into  the  distances  of  sea  and  sky. 
Odysseus, — then  you  dreamed  of  Ithaca  ! 
You  dreamed  of  singing  armies  sailing  home, 
And  bearing  in  their  hands  the  victory 
That  left  in  flames  the  hostile  heights  of  Troy. 
Ah,  Sea-bird,  out  of  death  you  came  to  me ; 
Your  wings  were  weary  then  of  waves  and  wind, 
When  Zeus  with  lightning  burned  your  homing 

ships, 

And  out  of  closing  eyes  you  looked  at  death ; 
But  through  the  stormy  night,  across  the  depths, 


CALYPSO 

You  heard  me  singing  to  the  angry  clouds ; 
With  sudden  strength  you  braved  the  tide  to  me, 
For  seven  years,  night-long,  I  have  not  sung 
From  coral  cliff  or  star-lit  saffron  shore.   .  .  . 
Odysseus, — do  not  dream  of  Ithaca  ! 
Odysseus,  see, — -my  hair  is  long  and  dark  ; 
You  called  it  midnight  round  the  moon,  my  face. 
And  see, — my  body  is  more  white  than  foam ; 
Like  foam,  you  said,  I  floated  on  the  wave 
That  swept  your  soul  out  to  eternal  seas. 
Then  shall  I  sing  again  to  mariners, 
Who  fall  upon  their  knees  before  my  face, 
And  tremble  at  my  voice,  and  sob  of  love  ? 


He  sleeps,  and  I  am  weary  now  of  song, 
And  weary  of  the  pallid  flowers  I  sought 
Beneath  the  swaying  depths  of  moon-stirred  tides  ; 
52 


CALYPSO 

And  I  am  weary  of  all  other  things 

Except  the  silent  face  beneath  mine  eyes, 

The  hands  I  touch,  the  body  warm  with  sleep. 

As  through  a  heavy  mist  on  groping  wings 

A  white  bird  flutters,  and  is  lost  again, 

There  hovered  on  his  lips  a  distant  name 

That   shook    his    breath, — and    vanished   in   his 

dreams.  .  .  . 

Oceanus,  my  father,  by  the  love 
That  brought  my  mother  Thetis  to  your  arms, 
I  pray  you  build  a  wall  of  waves  and  wind, 
So  from  this  isle  no  barque  may  ever  sail ! 
Disturb  the  depths  and  hurl  the  waters  high 
And  with  a  tempest  lash  the  tortured  sea 
Until  it  writhes  and  leaps,  and  lines  of  foam 
Are  left  against  the  sky  like  drifting  clouds  ! 
And  Thetis,  O  my  mother, — bear  to  Zeus 
The   prayer   that    beats    against   my   frightened 

heart 

53 


CALYPSO 

That  He  may  hush  the  call  of  Ithaca 
That  draws  Odysseus  o'er  the  wine-dark  sea 
And  in  his  dreams  for  ever  leads  him  home. 
Ah,  blithe  and  lovely  Thetis,  whose  white  feet 
Speed  o'er  the  waves  as  flowers  blown  through 
foam, — 

4 

Are  you  the  mother  from  whose  breast  I  lived, 

The  laughing,  kissing  mother  whom  I  loved 

Before  you  gave  me  to  this  wooded  isle  ? 

You  bore  a  son,  Achilles,  to  a  king, 

And  me  you  bore,  a  daughter  to  a  god, 

And  love  has  fallen  on  you  as  the  sun 

Falls  burningly  upon  a  waving  flower ; 

Your  beauty  does  not  wither  to  the  wind, 

But   toward   the   sun   you    lift    your    face    and 

smile. 

Did  ever  light  and  heat  descend  on  you 
As  love  has  fallen  heavily  on  me  ? 
Oh,  lift  my  heart  within  your  shining  arms 
54 


CALYPSO 

And  put  to  sleep  the  longing  and  the  dread, 
And  put  to  sleep  the  waking  hours  of  tears  ! 


The  long  night  severs  as  two  purple  wings 

From  the  bright  body  of  a  bird  unfold. 

The  time  has  come,  Odysseus,  when  the  sea 

Again  must  take  you  to  its  barren  breast. 

The  gods  have  heard  the  prayer  you  made  in 

dreams, 

And  from  mine  arms  your  restless  soul  is  free 
To  seek  again  the  way  to  Ithaca ; 
But  driving  winds  and  seas  that  hide  in  mists, 
And  perilous  rocks,  and  storms,  and  hostile  shores 
Shall  threaten  ere  you  see  Penelope, — 
An  unremembered  strange  Penelope, 
A  woman  who  has  waited  and  has  wept, 
And  is  no  more  the  bride  you  bade  good-bye ; 
55 


CALYPSO 

But  Zeus  ordains  your  homing  destiny 
And  moves  your  heart  with  pity  for  her  faith.  .  .  . 
Your  hands  still  linger  in  my  falling  hair, 
And  with  the  sting  of  kisses  over-sweet 
Between  our  lips  our  last  kiss  dies  .  .  .  and  now 
I  bring  you  parting  gifts,  and  say  farewell, 
And  bid  you  go — remembering  my  face. 


CIRCE 

I  BOW  my  head  before  your  hate, 

Mariner,  mariner  ! 

You  heard  my  songs  and  chose  your  fate, 
What  time  you  whispered  at  my  gate, 

0  changed  mariner  ! 

I  answer  not  your  new  despair, 

Mariner,  mariner  ; 

You  saw  my  face  and  called  me  fair, 
You  caught  and  kissed  my  curling  hair, 

O  changed  mariner  ! 

Your  mouth  is  mute,  but  let  me  speak, 

Mariner,  mariner  ! 

You  took  my  hand  and  found  me  meek, 
Your  arms  were  strong  when  mine  were  weak, 

0  changed  mariner  I 
57 


CIRCE 

I  hear  your  curses  on  my  land, 
Mariner,  mariner, — 
Do  you  forget  how,  hand  in  hand, 
We  saw  the  stars  above  the  sand, 
0  changed  mariner  ? 


I  hear  your  angry  plea  to  Jove, 

Mariner,  mariner, 
Too  oft*  the  mouth  you  weary  of 
You  kissed  with  humble  pleas  for  love, 

0  changed  mariner  ! 


My  sorrow  lurks  within  mine  eyes, 
Mariner,  mariner  ; 

You  leave  me  when  the  summer  flies ; 

For  me  love  flames  and  fades  and  dies, 
0  changed  mariner  / 


CIRCE 

Then  lift  again  your  dripping  oar, 

Mariner ;  mariner  ! 
For  vanished  love  returns  no  more 
Unto  my  sad  enchanted  shore, — 
O  changed  mariner  ! 


59 


ODE  ON  BEAUTY 

Now  driven  by  restless  energy  for  song 

I  touched  the  lyre  with  eager  trembling  hands  ; 

Not  to  a  sylvan  goddess  held  among 

The  golden  hierarchy  of  dim  lands 

Do  I  lift  up  mine  eyes,  and  call  to  bless 

With  inspiration  my  too  humble  praise 

By  being  vivid  in  her  loveliness ; 

Nor  do  I  seek  among  the  ruinous  ways 

And  desolation  of  forgotten  realms 

For  some  immortal  fragment  of  the  past, — 

Perchance 

A  hero's  storied  lance  ; 

Or  for  a  shining  ensign  borne  above  the  helms 
Of  galleys  that  once  warred  for  empires  vast, 

A  standard  that  in  fancy  gleams  again, 
60 


ODE  ON   BEAUTY 

The  splendid  symbol  of  a  splendid  strife 

Upon  the  wine-dark  main, — 
And,  gleaming,  casts  its  shadow  down  upon 
The  bended  head  of  her  who  was  the  wife 
Of  Spartan  Menelaus,  but  anon 
Will  lift  o'er  Ilium  her  hfod  that  lies 
Now  listlessly  across  her  dreaming  eyes. 

Of  no  heroic  days  these  numbers  are, 

Nor  goddess  worshipped  in  her  sacred  grove  ; 

There  is  a  Spirit  ruling  from  afar 

Who  hath  created  Song  and  Dreams  and  Love ; 

Who,  when  the  world  was  only  night  and  space 

Across  the  darkness  scattered  stars  to  sing ; 

Who,  when  the  world  was  but  a  sleeping  place 

Awakened  it  unto  the  sweet  first  Spring ; 

Then  were  the  depths  melodious  with  seas, 

And  all  the  lands  that  rose  above  their  flood 

Were  gladdened  by  the  green  of  grass  and  trees,- 
61 


ODE   ON   BEAUTY 

And  over  all  a  sun  that  stained  like  blood 

The  dewy  mists  that  veiled  the  tremulous  dawn ; 

And   through   the   fresh    fair  forest  ways  there 
moved 

Perchance  a  startled  fawn 

Quick  followed  by  a  fleeting  maid — 

Who  being  seen  was  loved 

By  one  whose  eyes  had  made  her  all  afraid ! 

It  is  of  Beauty  that  I  fain  would  sing, 

And  she  did  lend  me  from  her  voice  a  note 

That  I  such  praises  as  are  meet  might  bring 

To  her  who  knoweth  each  bird's  warbling  throat ! 

She  is  the  unseen  presence  in  a  song, 

The  grace  within  each  flower's  slender  stem, 

The  lily  that  is  white,  the  rose  of  wrong, 

The  fire  and  fever  in  each  gleaming  gem  ; 

And  every  murmurous  wind  repeats  her  name, 

And  it  is  chanted  by  the  waves  that  roll, 
62 


ODE   ON   BEAUTY 

It  is  her  breath  that  fans  the  Autumn's  flame 

In  leaves  whose  crimson  death  eludes  the  gloom  ; 
And  love  of  Beauty  is  the  soul, — 

That  fragment  of  a  life  untouched  by  doom, 

The  yearning  to  create,  to  never  die, 
The  high,  divine,  eternal  cry 
Aspiring  from  the  changing  sod, — 

The  common  attribute  of  man  and  god ! 


A  PROFILE 
For  Miss  E— 

I  SAW  one  pass  along  a  marble  frieze 

That  Time  had  shaken  from  a  temple  wall ; 
And  moving  maidens  in  processional 

Followed  or  came  before,  but  none  of  these 

Turned  such  a  face  from  the  Hesperides, 

Or  stood,  superb,  like  Greece  before  her  fall, 
Or  went  so  proudly  in  the  festival, — 

Whither, — O  goddess  of  the  fallen  frieze  ? 

No  garlands  for  the  gods  delight  your  hands, 
No  sacred  fillets  round  your  brow  are  pressed, 

But  you  emerge  from  some  forgotten  gloom, — 
Lonely  in  beauty  like  your  twilight  lands, 
And  lovelier  than  Helen  when  she  blessed 
An  ancient  city  with  a  splendid  doom. 


ONE  WOMAN 

SINCE  I  had  heard  them  speak  of  her  great  shame 
I  looked  upon  her  face  with  curious  eyes, 
But  pity  in  my  heart  became  surprise, — 

Finding  not  any  havoc  there,  nor  flame  ; 

Only  a  little  smile  that  went  and  came, 

As  if  she  knew  a  mirth  too  great  and  wise 
And  far  too  proud  to  serve  the  world  with  lies, 

Disdaining  as  she  did  its  praise  or  blame. 

She  who  had  passed  through  sin,  as  through  a  door, 

Stayed  not  upon  the  steps  to  wail  and  beat 
Against  the  portal  closed  for  evermore ; 

But  smiled,  and  went  her  way  with  tireless 

feet, 

When   night     had    passed    and  the  long  day 
begun  ;— 

So  Hagar  faced  the  desert  with  her  son. 
E  65 


LOTUS-FLOWER 

OH,  cold  and  blue  upon  an  ancient  stream, 
Your  beauty  is  a  deathless  lotus-flower, 
Shaped  like  a  star,  and  coloured  like  the  hour 

Of  desert  twilight,  when  the  shadows  seem 

To  dim  the  Sphinx ;  strange  and  eternal  gleam 
The  eyes  that  draw  my  soul  with  sombre  power, 
Back  into  tombs  where  haunting  memories  cower, 

And  life  is  as  an  echo  and  a  dream. 

Dear  ghost  of  Egypt,  lift  your  face  again — 
Illumined  faintly  as  by  distant  fire, — 

Perchance  these  hands  have  scourged  a  thou- 
sand slaves ! 

Did  I,  too,  shudder  at  your  chill  disdain  ? 
Or  were  we  twin-born  with  a  king  for  sire, 

And  has  our  love  outlived  a  thousand  graves  ? 
66 


TO   A   FRIEND 

LIKE  yellow  flowers  enriching  with  their  gold 
The  treasure-house,  that  is  the  World  in  Spring, 
Are  all  the  tender  thoughts  of  you  that  bring 

Their  gladness  to  make  richer,  many-fold, 

My  heart — which  is  the  world  a-bloom  of  old 
With  youth  to  live  and  songs  to  hear  and  sing  ; 
Into  this  treasure-house,  Ninon,  you  fling 

One  flower  that  will  not  fade  when  Spring  is  cold. 

How  can  I  thank  you  for  the  gold  that  gleams 
Across  my  April  days  of  shower  and  sun  ? 

How  can  I  thank  you  for  your  gifts  to  me  ? — 

For  gentleness,  and  mirth,  and  faith,  and  dreams, 

And   fairer   than    all   fair   fresh   flowers,    this 

one, — 
This  fragrant  fadeless  flower  of  sympathy. 


IN   MEMORY    OF   SWINBURNE 

THEY  have  not  laid  thee,  Singer,  in  a  tomb 
In  Abbey  walls, 

But  where  thou  liest  is  there  deeper  gloom 
When  night-time  falls 

Than  shadows  o'er  the  graves  of  those  who  sleep 
Together  there, — 

Above  whose  names  have  nations  paused  to  weep, 
And  to  despair  ? 

And  yet  for  thee  who  loved  the  sea  and  land, 
And  heaven  above, 

They  make  thy  grave  where  thine  own  music 
planned, 

Singer  of  love. 

68 


IN   MEMORY   OF   SWINBURNE 

Where  Death  hath  taken  thee,  no  man  may  know, 

But  if  thou  art 

Where  any  arrow  from  a  careless  bow 

May  pierce  thine  heart, 

Do$&now  a  nation's  blind  ingratitude 

To  her  great  dead, 

Make  wistful,  childish-wise,  thy  quiet  mood, 

And  bend  thine  head  ? 

Not  all  of  England's  armies,  nor  her  ships, 
Could  leave,  as  thou, 
Her  language  on  a  million  singing  lips, 
Alien  till  now  ; 

And  that  the  land  that  bore  thee  leaves  unsaid 
Praise  for  thy  name, 

And  does  not  lay  the  laurel  o'er  thee,  dead, 
Is  thy  land's  shame. 


IN   MEMORY  OF   SWINBURNE 

But,  Singer,  of  thy  brothers  whom  she  gave 

Her  honours,  all 

Would  leave  their  tombs  to  share  thy  grass-grown 

grave, 
An  thou  didst  call. 

All  poets  love  thee,  and  all  lovers  too, 

And  all  youth-time ; 

So,  where  thou  sleepest  'neath  the  stars  and  dew, 

I  leave  my  rhyme, — 

And  say  thee  thanks  for  music  that  hath  taken 
My  soul  o'ersea, 

To  Lesbos,  and  the  Holy  Lands  forsaken 
By  all  save  thee. 


70 


THE   DEAD   AVIATOR 
For  A.  H. 

IT  was  a  sea  uncharted  that  you  sailed, 
Oh,  Mariner,  borne  by  your  winged  barque 
Beyond  far  ports,  where  winds  like  sirens  wailed, 
Past  the  flight  of  the  lark. 

It  was  a  field  of  sunlight  and  of  air, 
Oh,  Rider,  that  your  magic  steed  roamed  over, — 
Where  clouds  were  left  like  dust  along  the  glare, 
And  the  stars  were  like  clover. 

It  was  a  land  of  nothingness  and  space, 
Where,  Conqueror,  you  entered  and  unfurled 
An  earthly  ensign  in  a  pathless  place 
Beyond  the  certain  world. 


THE   DEAD   AVIATOR 

It  was  a  stairway  that  the  foot  of  Man 

Had  never  through  the  ages  long  ascended, — 

But  toward  the  sun,  oh,  Child,  you  laughed  and 

ran, 
Until  your  playtime  ended. 

It  was  a  tryst  you  went  unto,  oh,  Lover ! — 

With  Death,  your  Bride, — who  prays  you  fare  no 

more 
From  her  small  house  .  .  .  and  gives  you  grass 

for  cover  .  .  . 
And  bars  a  silent  door. 


72 


EMPIRE   D' AMOUR 

THIS  is  the  cruellest  of  cruel  things, — 
That  I,  the  daughter  of  a  line  of  kings, 
Should  humbly  love  a  passing  minstrel  bold ; 
Nor  fair  is  he,  nor  young,  but  strangely  old, 
With  weary  lips  that  only  curve  in  song, 
(Ah  !  heaven,  how  his  weary  arms  are  strong  !  ) 
And  eyes  so  ardent  that  they  have  no  place 
Within  the  coldness  of  his  thin  white  face. 

Oh,  did  his  songs,  or  did  his  glowing  eyes 
Call  to  my  heart  beneath  the  music's  sighs 
The  night  he  came  into  my  father's  hall 
With  vagrant  jests  and  careless  rhymes  for  all  ? 
I  have  remembered  since  that  eagerly 
His  passing  gaze  most  often  paused  at  me ; 
73 


EMPIRE   D'AMOUR 

"  And  surely/'  said  I,  to  my  troubled  heart, 

"  He  is  grotesque  as  now  he  stands  apart 

With  hungry  arms,  and  hungry  cruel  face  "- 

I  turned  to  smile  upon  a  courtier's  grace  ; 

But  all  the  world  had  vanished  from  my  sight. 

I  saw  two  eyes,  mysterious,  alight ! 

What  unknown  fires  burned  there  ?     What  joy  or 

pain  ? 

I  looked  upon  the  minstrel's  face  again. 
Now  faster,  wilder,  grew  the  revelry ! 
But  all  my  mirth  was  dead,  for  close  to  me 
He  drew  ...  he  heard  my  breath  come  pain- 

fully, 

He  knew  I  pitied  him, — alas,  he  knew ! 
And  laughed  aloud  as  some  strange  god  might 

do. 

My    hair  by  knights  has  oft'   been  called  pure 
gold, 

74 


EMPIRE   D'AMOUR 

The  ballad-makers  have  my  beauty  told, 

My  tiring-maids  have  ever  stood  aside 

And  wondered  when  my  hair  hung  loose,  untied, 

While  I,  with  no  more  covering  than  it, 

Have  blushed  because  they  thought  me  exquisite. 

He  laughed,  at  me,  as  some  strange  god  might  do, 
And  from  the  hall  in  trembling  haste  I  flew, — 
But  not  before  I  heard  his  laughter  cease, 
And  strange  and  sudden  tears  had  brought  me 

peace. 

Was  I  the  princess  of  the  courtiers'  praise  ? 
Was  I  the  girl  whose  feet  trod  gracious  ways  ? 
Within  a  mirror,  silver  through  the  gloom, 
I  sought  myself,  there  kneeling  in  my  room. 

That  night  I  wept  who  never  wept  before.  .  .  . 
Anon  I  heard  the  minstrel  by  my  door ; 
I  was  a  princess,  surely  came  he  then 
A  suppliant,  who  was  no  king  of  men. 
75 


EMPIRE    D'AMOUR 

My  thought  was  gentle ;  I  would  let  him  bow 
And  for  his  boldness  ask  forgiveness  now  .  .  . 
His  eyes  were  ardent  on  me  with  their  sin — 
His  hungry  arms  about  me  swept  me  in — 
(I  know  the  moon  was  like  a  splendid  song 
That  ran  the  casements  of  the  night  along, 
While  stars  made  their  appointed  music  sweet 
And  winds  and  shadows  swooned  about  our  feet !  ) 
And  thrice,  with  fear  and  joy  and  passing  pride, 
I  would  have  fallen  fainting  by  his  side 
But  that  my  heart  was  strong  and  glad  with  love, 
And  fierce  with  all  the  tenderness  thereof; 
Mine  eyes  beheld  the  bitter  way  Love's  feet 
Must  follow,  and  the  poisoned  wine  and  sweet ; 
I  took  the  bitter  way ;  I  drained  the  wine : 
And  in  that  hour  I  found  a  gift  divine, — 
His  weariness  and  love  and  songs  were  mine ! 
That  he  had  brought  no  gifts  of  power  and  place, 
Or  royal  dignities  of  pride  and  race, 


EMPIRE   D'AMOUR 

But  made  more  sweet  my  pity  of  his  days 
When  on  the  road  he  sang  his  minstrel  lays, 
And  cared  not  whether  fortune  led  him  on 
Through  night  beneath  the  moon,  through  days  of 
sun. 

He  lingers  here  within  my  father's  house 
And  leads  the  court  in  laughter  and  carouse ; 
My  women  jest  with  him,  but  smiling  hide 
Their  secret  joy  to  keep  him  by  their  side. 
I,  who  am  jealous  of  this  dalliance, 
Alone  may  never  call  him  with  my  glance. 
Oh,  that  my  head,  so  bowed  in  love  and  pain, 
Might  lift  itself  in  fearless  pride  again  ! 

My  maids  no  more  have  wondering  eyes  to  see 
My  fairness,  and  I  feel  that  pityingly 
They  have  surmised  what  fever  makes  me  faint 
And  burns  upon  my  face  like  wantons'  paint ; 

77 


EMPIRE    D'AMOUR 

I  heard  one  say,  "  Tis  surely  that  brave  knight 
Come  to  the  tourney  wearing  gold  and  white, 
Whose  beauty  sickens  her  with  secret  love, 
For  she  is  strange  and  timid  as  a  dove 
And  would  not  seek  his  preference  though  she 

die, — 

And  no  knight  dares  to  lift  his  eyes  so  high/' 
Well, —  let    them    think    this   thing,   for    what 

care  I  ? 

And  let  my  sin  consume  me,  day  by  day, 
Until  I  fall  where  I  was  wont  to  pray, 
Before  the  shining  crucifix  I  shun, 
Before  the  tortured  face  of  Mary's  Son  ! 

A  prince  is  coming  from  a  distant  place, 
And  he  is  fairly  famed  for  skill  and  grace ; 
'Tis  said  that  many  women  love  his  face. 
He  comes  to  claim  me  as  his  queen  and  bride ; 
My  father  pledged  my  troth  to  him  with  pride. 


EMPIRE   D'AMOUR 

Another  moon  will  come  and  pass  away 
Before  the  dawning  of  the  wedding-day, 
Before  the  hour  when  I  shall  kiss  the  book. 
And  touch  the  sceptre  that  my  fathers  took. 
And    make     the     vows,    and    wear    the     bridal 

gown, 

And  bow  my  head  beneath  the  gleaming  crown, 
And  hear  the  clinging  music  of  the  lyre, 
The  joyous  singing  of  the  maiden  choir, 
And  see  the  bridegroom's  face  through  mists  of 

veil ; 

Before  the  day  when  many  boats  will  sail 
To  bear  these  tidings  into  far-off  ports, 
Before  the  merriment  of  feasts  and  sports, 
Before  the  marriage-eve  will  bring  to  pass 
A  band  of  maidens  dancing  on  the  grass.   .  .  . 

Then  am  I  jealous  that  a  minstrel  stays 
To  please  my  women  with  his  mocking  praise  ? 
79 


EMPIRE  D'AMOUR 

How  often  has  he  called  me  more  than  fair ! 
And  looked  long  in  mine  eyes,  and  kissed  my 

hair, 

And  kissed  my  throat,  and  bidden  me  to  dance, — 
Then  as  I  circled  caught  me  close,  perchance ! 

I  well  have  loved  the  purple  and  the  crown ; 
I  cannot  throw  my  toy  of  greatness  down ; 
I  cannot  follow  him  for  love  of  whom 
I  have  held  out  mine  hands  to  sin  and  doom. 

There  is  a  dagger  hidden  in  my  breast ; 
There  is  a  death-draught  in  the  ancient  crest 
Upon  the  ring  I  wear.  .  .  .  There  is  a  stream.  .  .  . 
Besides  its  gliding  darkness  oft'  I  dream  ; 
There  is  a  sickening  fear  in  every  pain ; 
A  faintness  and  a  fever  and  a  pain ; 
There  is  a  madness  ever  in  my  brain  ! 
Oh,  is  this  love  so  great  that  I  must  die — 

Spent — like  a  weakling  bird  that  seeks  the  sky  ? 
80 


EMPIRE   D'AMOUR 

I  touch  the  dagger  .  .  .  tremble  at  a  sound ! 
Think    of    his   songs  .    .    .    and   turn    the    ring 

around.  .  .  . 

I  am  the  daughter  of  a  line  of  kings, — 
This  is  the  cruellest  of  cruel  things. 


81 


SONG  FOR  THE  BELOVED 

COME  closer,  my  maidens,  I  sway  on  my  knees ; 

Oh,  dark  over  me  is  the  shadow  of  love  ! 
This  veil  is  a  shroud  for  the  winding  of  joy  ; 

Oh,  maidens,  my  heart  was  a  dove 
That   trembled,   that   fell,   that   is   dead    of  its 
fear, — 

A  storm  over  me  is  the  coming  of  love  ! 

Come  closer,  my  maidens,  the  hour  that  is  nigh 
Is  cruel,  is  close,  is  the  winter  a-cold 

That   creeps   like  a   thief  toward  the  summer's 

warm  hands, 
To  steal  all  the  flowers  they  hold ; 

I  tremble,  I  swoon,  for  the  hour  that  is  nigh 

Is  cruel,  is  close,  and  my  heart  is  a-cold ! 
82 


SONG  FOR  THE   BELOVED 

Come  closer,  my  maidens,  the  face  that  I  fear 

Is  famished,  is  flushed,  is  the  fire  to  the  flower  ! 
My   years   are   yet  few,  and  my  songs  are  not 

sung; 

Oh,  father,  the  bride  whom  you  dower 
So  richly  to  honour  this  marriage  you  make 

Will  die  ere  the  fragrance  has  died  from  this 
flower  ! 


THE  KING'S  KISS 

FROM  Uwaine's  realm  she  came  to  serve 

At  court  in  Hoel's  land ; 
No  maid  so  fair  in  Brittany 

E'er  knelt  and  kissed  his  hand ; 
The  Fool  who  saw  the  King's  eyes  flame 

Shuddered  to  understand. 

Her  eyes  she  lifted  to  the  King, 
And — startled — grew  afraid, 

As  if  she  felt  upon  her  heart 
Some  heavy  joy  were  laid  ; 

A  sudden  gladness  left  her  weak, 
A  little  prayer  she  made ; 

She  did  not  know  it  was  a  prayer, — 
The  sob  her  breath  drew  in ; 


THE   KING'S    KISS 

"  Beware  his  kiss,  what  can  it  mean 
But  fear  and  shame  and  sin  ? 

Beware  his  kiss,  'tis  woe  and  death ! " 
Thus  soft  sang  Gawdelin. 

She  heard  the  song  the  good  Fool  sang : 
The  King,  he  too  had  heard, 

And  something  in  his  soul  awoke 
To  flutter  like  a  bird ; 

He  took  her  hands  between  his  hands, 
But  neither  spoke  a  word.  .  .  . 

The  summer  sun  that  lately  shone 

Above  the  garden  there, 
Descended  'mid  the  far-off  hills 

And  shadows  ventured  where 
The  day  still  lingered  in  the  warmth 

And  sunlight  of  her  hair. 
85 


THE  KING'S   KISS 

Came  darkness  soft,  and  peace,  until 

The  deep  unknown  unrest 
That  stirred  her  heart  was  echoed  from 

The  song  the  night  loves  best, — 
The  nightingale's  flame  song  that  burns 

Strange  wounds  in  every  breast. 

Anon  the  King's  arms  held  her  close, 
Their  lips  met,  ardent,  then ; 

Anon  the  King's  arms  held  her  off 
A  little  way,  as  when 

He  looked  at  her  as  though  she  were 
The  one  maid  left  to  men.  .  .  . 

The  Fool  stole  forth  and  late  it  was ; 

The  revels  screamed  within. 
"  Beware  his  kiss,  what  can  it  mean 

But  shame  and  fear  and  sin  ? 
Beware  his  kiss,  'tis  woe  and  death  ! " 

Again  sang  Gawdelin. 
86 


THE   KING'S    KISS 

The  Fool's  lips  lingered  to  his  flute, 

And  prayed  in  melody  ; 
It  was  a  tender  tune  he  made, 

As  piteous  as  could  be, — 
Then  sad,  anon,  he  stole  away, 

Unnoticed,  silently. 

And  when  again  the  Fool  had  gone 

The  King  put  love  aside ; 
Compassionate,  he  turned  from  her, 

Whose  heart  had  vanquished  pride ; 
With  many  tears  and  broken  words, 

"  Stay — Sire,  oh,  stay  !  "  she  cried. 

In  love  and  sorrow  Hoel  turned  ; 

He  knew  not  what  to  say ; 
But  as  he  fled  from  her  sweet  voice 

He  knew  his  heart  would  stay 
Behind  him  in  the  darkness  where 

She,  swooning,  fell  and  lay.  .  .  , 


THE    KING'S    KISS 

At  last  her  grief  called  out  to  her ; 

She  woke  to  memory , 
To  weep  in  humble  loneliness ; 

"  Despite  his  care  for  me 
I  would  I  were  a  light-o'-love, — 

I  would  I  were !  "  sobbed  she. 

Long  Hoel  lived,  and  fought,  and  smiled ; 

None  knew  his  secret  pain, 
Except  the  Fool  who  played  to  him 

Sweet  music,  soft  like  rain ; 
And  in  a  convent  'mid  the  hills 

The  maiden  prayed,  in  vain. 


88 


THE   QUEEN'S   JESTER 

OH,  I  am  weary  of  the  fool's  light  place  ! 

I  am  a-weary  of  the  songs  I  sing  ! 

I  am  a-weary  of  the  flowers  I  bring ! 
And  I  am  weary  of  your  smile's  sweet  grace ; 

Of  all  these  things  I  am  a-weary  now, 

Yea,  sick  of  all,  as  once  again  I  bow 
My  capped  shorn  head  before  your  starlike  face. 

Oh  Beauty,  when  your  fingers  lightly  touch 
My  painted  cheek  in  payment  for  my  mirth 
The  heart  beneath  my  motley  leaves  the  earth 

And  singing,  reels — a  drunken  thing — to  such 
Wild  heavens,  my  Queen,  as  you  know  nothing 

of— 
You  do  not  know  because  you  know  not  love 

(Yet  have  I  watched  your  eyes  a-dreaming  much). 


THE   QUEEN'S   JESTER 

Dream,  dream,  sweet  Queen,  upon  your  purple 

throne, — 

Your  days  of  power  over  me  are  few ; 
Ere  long  your  distant  dreams  are  coming  true 
On  songs  of  mine  from  which  all  mirth  has  flown  ; 
These  mocking  lips  whose  jests  you  found  so 

droll 
Shall  search   upon  your  mouth  and  find  your 

soul, — 
And  drink  it  up  to  mingle  with  mine  own  ! 

Adored,  so  dream  I  from  my  fool's  light  place, 
And  pity  you  who  sometimes  pity  me, 
(I  have  surprised  your  eyes  fixed  pityingly !) 

But  I  am  weary  of  your  smile's  sweet  grace ; 
Forgive  ! — because  my  love  so  restless  is 
To  vanquish,  Queen,  your  glory  in  a  kiss, 

And  lay  love's  face  upon  your  starlike  face. 


90 


I   AM   THE   WIND 

I  AM  the  wind  that  wavers, 
You  are  the  certain  land ; 

I  am  the  shadow  that  passes 
Over  the  sand. 

I  am  the  leaf  that  quivers, 
You — the  unshaken  tree  ; 

You  are  the  stars  that  are  steadfast, 
I  am  the  sea. 

You  are  the  light  eternal, 

Like  a  torch  I  shall  die.  .  .  . 

You  are  the  surge  of  deep  music, 
I — but  a  cry  ! 


91 


TO  A  FAIR  WOMAN 

HELEN,  by  many  loved,  and  loving  not, 

Helen,  whose  smiles  are  ever  cold  and  sweet, 

Art  thou  an  ancient  queen  whom  Time  forgot, 
And  Death  paused  not  to  greet  ? 

Helen,  perchance  thy  perfect  beauty  came, 
An  heritage  to  make  the  world  more  fair, 

From  one  who  lived  in  Troy,  and  bore  thy  name, 
And  had  such  red-gold  hair. 

Thine  eyes  are  like  deep  sea-water  at  night, 

Thy  mouth  is  as  a  flower  that  fears  the  sun, — 
Burned  pale  once  long  ago  by  too  great  light, 

Its  singing  all  is  done. 
92 


TO  A   FAIR   WOMAN 

Immortal  as  the  marble  maids  of  Greece 
Thou  goest  on  thy  gracious  way  apart, 

Thy  lifted  face  for  ever  still  with  peace, — 
Helen,  without  a  heart. 

And  yet  more  fragile  than  an  earth-born  rose, 
More  fleeting  and  more  fair  and  sweet  than  such, 

Thou  seemest  when  thy  weary  eyelids  close, — 
Helen,  loved  overmuch. 


93 


ODE   ON   ANOTHER'S   HAPPINESS 

OH,  Girl,  whom  I  beheld  so  radiant-eyed 
Beside  the  proud  glad  man  who  bent  his  head 
Over  your  voice,  to  hear  each  word  you  said, 

To  you,  a  new  betrothed  bride, 
A  day   and  night  my  thoughts  have    backward 

fled; 

For  I,  who  caught  upon  a  city  street, 
The  heaven  in  two  faces  flashing  by, 
Dreamed  on  the  instant  of  a  starlit  sky, 

And  of  a  garden  sweet, 
Where  a  fountain  near  a  balcony 
Sang  like  the  music  of  a  serenade 
As  through  the  parting  curtains  came 
One  whose  rapture  was  a  flame, — 
"  The  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea." 
94 


ODE   ON   ANOTHER'S  HAPPINESS 

The  look  of  Juliet  was  on  your  face, 

But  oh,  it  was  her  very  grace, 
Thrown  over  you  like  some  transcending  veil 
That  made  your  beauty  mystic  as  a  dream 
Of  all  fair  loves  that  are,  and  that  have  been, 
And  still  shall  be,  when  you  lie  cold  and  pale 

In  a  garden  where  white  poppies  gleam, 
And  lips  no  more  may  kisses  lose  or  win. 
For  you  the  cup  runs  over,  and  for  you 
Love  shapes  a  vista  of  unlived  sweet  years 

To  wander,  dreaming,  through  ; 
And  thoughts  of  little  children  bring  no  fears, 
But  the  proud  joy  that  you  may  live  again 

In  lives  sprung  from  your  own, 
Drawing  your  souls  with  holiness  and  pain 

And  the  first  moan, 

Into  a  dearer  kinship  than  you  yet  have  known  ; 
For  you  the  sun  is  but  a  glory  shed 
From  that  which  burns  too  brightly  in  your  breast ; 
95 


ODE   ON   ANOTHER'S   HAPPINESS 

And  you  are  drunken  with  the  gladdest  wine 

Ever  from  an  immortal  vine 
The  winged  feet  of  men  and  maids  have  pressed, 

From  purple  fruit  and  red. 

Oh,  lovers  of  the  crowded  street,  you  pass, 
Thinking  the  world,  in  pretty  arrogance, 
Blooms  with  no  other  such  divine  romance, — 
But  other  stars  have  fallen  on  the  grass  ! 
And  I  who  loved  you  gladly  for  love's  sake, 
Give  you  a  little  pity  from  my  heart, 

(Which  you  will  scorn  to  take  !) 
For  new  and  thrilling  as  may  be  your  joy 
It  cannot  be  so  rich  as  mine  own  part. 
Nor  can  it  be  the  same  deep  draught  I  drain, 

Oh,  my  Sweet  Boy, — 

With  closed  eyes  and  happy  pain, 
When  taken  in  your  sudden  swift  embrace, — 

Your  kiss  falls  on  my  face  ! 


PIERROT   AND   THE   PARASOL 

SILKEN  and  mauve  upon  a  golden  stem, 
Her  parasol  is  like  a  passion-flower, — 
Fallen  forgotten  from  her  hands  that  hour 

My  soul  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  them. 

Now  she  is  gone,  but  her  too  sweet  perfume, 
Like  poisonous  wine  from  pallid  violets  pressed, 
Lingers  and  leaves  my  jesting  lips  distressed — 

As   though   her   shadow   fluttered    through    the 
gloom. 

Oh,  wan  and  fair  is  she,  my  pale  strange  flower ! 
A  dear  drear  angel  from  a  nether  heaven, 
Where  Time  is  not  at  all,  and  endless  even 

Pauses  and  passes  not  with  any  hour ; 
G  97 


PIERROT   AND   THE   PARASOL 

From  that  sad  shore,  untrod  by  loveless  feet, 
An  ominous  wind  has  blown  my  asphodel, — 
A  star  too  fair,  a  blossom  loved  too  well, 

Is  she  whose  touch  most  subtle  is,  and  sweet.  .  .  . 

Now  on  her  folded  parasol  I  stare, 

(Made  fragrant  with  the  faint  perfume  of  her,) 
With  dreaming  eyes,  and  memories  that  stir 

Like  winds  a-tremble  in  her  wild  dark  hair ; 

So  like  her  is  this  mauve  and  golden  thing ! 
So  like  a  hushed  lute  my  lips  might  sound, — 
A  chalice  where  her  sea-deep  soul  lies  drowned, — 

So  like  a  passion-flower,  withering ! 


BAL   MASQUE 

ONE  thought  comes  now  more  mad  than  all  the 
rest. 

My  satin  slippers  left  where  I  undressed 

Bid  me  to  put  them  on  and  steal  away 

To  seek  some  grotesque  mirth  before  the  day ; 

And  my  long  cape  that  lies  across  the  bed, 
Where  in  disorder  furs  and  gowns  are  spread, 
Implores  my  soul  to  some  absurd  romance, — 
Why  not  the  masquerade  where  still  they  dance  ? 

For  I  might  make  my  muff  into  a  mask, 
And  change  into  a  coach  my  absinthe  flask, 
And  bid  the  stars  that  stand  so  idly  by 
Bring  me  a  robe  of  mist  and  moon-lit  sky ; 
99 


BAL  MASQUE 

And  I  might  charge  the  genii  of  the  rouge 
To  make  my  face  flower-like  for  lovers'  use, 
And  with  these  five  dead  roses  for  a  fan 
Enter   the    ballroom    as    the    last    tired    dance 
began.  .  .  . 

And    I    should  dance  the  last  tired  dance  with 

him, 

Until  the  music  failed,  and  lights  grew  dim, 
And  the  slow  morning  peering  through  the  door 
Saw  us  glide  by  alone  upon  the  floor.  .  .  . 

Lo,  la  la  ...  lo,  la  la  .  .  .  lo-oo,  la  la — ! 

The  waltz  is  over,  but  my  lover  lays 
His  arms  about  me  still  ...  no  music  plays  .  .  . 
My  fan  has  fallen — and  I  droop  for  breath — 
He    lifts    his    mask  —  Helas  \      I    danced    with 
Death. 


100 


VILLANELLE  OF   CITY   AND   COUNTRY 

BENEATH  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie, 

And  watch  the    Lovers  wander — Song  and 

Spring — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky ! 

A  great  triangle  shaft  uplifts  on  high 

Its  columned  shrine  wherein  the  presses  sing ; 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie. 

With  flocks  of  clouds  the  Shepherd-wind  goes  by, 
White  poppies  'mid  the  waving  grasses  swing — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky ! 

As  to  a  fairy  castle  we  draw  nigh 

When  home  the  ferries  bear  us,  marvelling ; 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie. 
101 


VILLANELLE   OF   CITY,   ETC. 

Across  the  empty  fields  the  trumpets  die 

That  meadow-larks  unto  the  morning  fling — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky  ! 

Far  off  I  hear  the  city's  aching  cry, 

Where  Life  and  Death  are  Lovers,  wander- 
ing; 

Beneath  the  arches  of  the  leaves  I  lie, — 
But  oh,  the  towers  set  in  Gotham's  sky  ! 


102 


VILLANELLE   OF   MEMORY 

IN  my  heart  a  little  pain 

Grows  into  a  soft-breathed  sigh 
As  I  touch  your  hand  again. 

Eyes  seek  eyes  for  joy  in  vain, 

But  my  lips  with  smiles  defy 
In  my  heart  a  little  pain. 

On  your  mouth ,  of  pity  fain, 

Jests,  a  little  bitter,  die 

As  I  touch  your  hand  again  ; 

And  the  hope  we  thought  was  slain 
Wakens  with  a  clinging  cry 

In  my  heart  a  little  pain. 
103 


VILLANELLE   OF   MEMORY 

I  can  hear  a  phantom  strain 

Of  our  buried  love  draw  nigh 
As  I  touch  your  hand  again. 


e;  my  dear,  has  made  us  sane  ; 

Yet  there  lingers,  —  who  knows  why  ? 
In  my  heart  a  little  pain 
As  I  touch  your  hand  again. 


104 


WHERE  JOY   PASSED   BY 

For  Marie 

HERE  is  the  spot  where  Joy  passed  by, 
And  never  smiled  at  me ; 

I  lingered  near  the  hillside  road 
And  waited,  tremblingly. 

My  heart  was  all  a-thrill  with  hope.  .  . 

His  coming  seemed  so  long 
That,  half-afraid,  I  sang  aloud 

To  lose  my  fear  in  song. 

Oh,  when  at  last  I  saw  his  face 

It  was  as  if  the  sun 
Had  shed  a  glory  on  the  world 

Before  the  night  was  done ! 


WHERE  JOY    PASSED   BY 

Because  I  could  not  speak  or  see, 
Because  from  other  lands 

I  thought  that  Joy  had  come  to  me 
I  held  out  both  my  hands  ; 

And  sheer  delight  within  my  heart 

Sang  paeans,  silently — 
He  came  so  close — but  on  he  passed  ! 

And  did  not  smile  at  me. 

Oh,  when  I  knew  that  he  had  gone 
The  world  grew  dark  again, 

And  weary,  then,  and  old  was  I, 
Who  waited  there  in  vain.  .  .  . 

I  wonder  if  his  kiss  had  been 
As  sweet  as  my  long  pain. 


106 


ASK  ME  NO  MORE 

ASK  me  no  more ;  it  is  enough 

To  lie  within  your  arms  again,- 

Broken  with  too  much  love, 
And  too  much  pain. 


Ask  me  no  more ;  do  I  forget — ? 

Not  one  of  all  our  kisses  shed 
Like  flower-leaves,  dewy-wet, 

Over  the  dead. 


Has  life  seemed  overlong  to  me  ? 

Ay,  even  nights  with  roses  decked 
Were  as  a  lonely  sea, 

And  I,  shipwrecked ; 

107 


ASK   ME  NO   MORE 

But  now  the  tide  has  swept  me  in ; — 
Too  tired  and  glad  I  touch  the  shore 

To  say  where  I  have  been — 
Ask  me  no  more. 


108 


IMPROVISATION 

"  They  told  us  that  a  girl  was  dead."—"  Musette's  Story." 

ONE  last  kiss  .  .  .  then  with  tender  eyes  we  went 
Forth  from  the  shadowy  house  of  scattered 

light; 
As  children  startled  by  a  gruesome  sight, 

We  wondered  what  the  dim  black  waggon  meant. 

"  A  girl  is  dead/'  we  heard,  and  this  was  all ; 

But  in  my  sleepless  dreams  she  flutters  past, 
Like  some  unknown  lost  sister,  found  at  last 

Beyond  the  locked  gate  of  a  silent  wall. 

Had  she  been  loved  as  I  was  loved,  and  died  ? 
(Once  in  his  arms  I  thought  my  heart  would 
break !) 

Could  she  not  bear  the  kisses  that  I  bore  ? 
109 


IMPROVISATION 

And  does  her  lover  mourn  his  nameless  bride  ? 
Was  shame  too  heavy  for  her  first  love's  sake  ? 
"A   girl   is   dead/'    they   told  us, — and   no 
more. 


no 


REMEMBERING  THEE 

TO-NIGHT  I  lie  down — broken  on  the  wheel. 
I  am  but  dust  upon  the  finger-tips 
Of  reaching   Time ;    or   wine   that   Sorrow 
sips — 

And  each  day  there  is  less  of  me  to  steal 

From  Life's  fast-emptying  cup  !     To-night  I  feel 
As  a  torn  grave  from  which  a  spectre  slips, 
Or   dry  sea-depths   wherein  the   last  wave 
drips, 

Or  star-bereaved  sky  no  sun  can  heal.  .   .  . 

Yea, — I  am  but  a  sword  too  dull  for  Fame 

To  strike  with  ;  but  a  reed  too  poor  for  Song 

To  shake ;  I  am  a  leaf  which  is  too  tame 

For  Fortune's  gathering, — and  gold  too  strong 
in 


REMEMBERING  THEE 

With  base  alloy  for  Love  to  mould.  .  .  . 

And  oh, 
Remembering    thee,    a    new    despair    I 

know! 


112 


FROM  THEE  SO  FAR 

REMEMBER  me  as  one  who  loved  awhile 

Life, — and  the  splendid  merriment  I  had ; 
Life, — and  its  throngs  of  people,  gay  and  sad, 

But  all  so  quick  to  answer  smile  with  smile ; 

Life, — that  with  changeful  humours  did  beguile 
My  changeful  moods,  and  ever  found  me  glad 
To  fare  upon  adventures,  wise  or  mad, — 

A  runner  laughing  down  the  fleeting  mile. 

Or  as  a  child  who  loved  the  shining  toy 

The  gods  placed  in  its  hands,  remember  me ; 

And  if  I  cried  at  dusk  to  touch  a  star, 
Forgive  !     For  I  who  was  a-flame  with  joy 
Shall  lie  most  lonely  in  my  shroud,  and  be 
Far  from  the  things  I  loved, — from  thee  so 

far! 

H  113 


THE  SISTERHOOD 

A   TRAGEDY 

"The  life  of  every  woman  is  one  of  three  tragedies- 
celibacy,  marriage,  or  unchastity." — Balzac. 

THE    CELIBATE 

How  many  Autumns  o'er  the  grass  have  fled 
With  fading  frost  to  wither  leaf  and  flower  ?— 
Since  from  a  shadowland  my  mother  led 
The  little  child  whom  she  had  gone  to  find, 
And  like  a  weary  voyager  that  hour 
Whispered  my  name  to  those  upon  the  shore, 
Then  drifted  onward  with  an  alien  wind 
Until  the  watchers  saw  her  barque  no  more. 

Was  it  the  wind  that  swept  her  out  to  sea, — 

My  mother  who  fulfilled  her  duteous  fate, 
114 


THE   SISTERHOOD 

That,  Spring  or  Summer,  chilled  the  heart  of  me  ? 
On  softer  eves  I,  too,  have  walked  along 
Those  moon-lit  paths  where  love  and  music  wait ; 
But  ever  in  my  soul  did  Shame  and  Fear 
Reject  the  pleading  of  a  lover's  song, 
Reject  the  vows  I  would  not  speak  or  hear. 

Youth-time  is  past,  and  lovers  plead  no  more, 
Gold  hair  is  grey,  and  eyes  have  lost  their  light ; 
This  empty  heart  that  passion  never  tore 
Grows  humbler  in  its  ache  of  loneliness  ; 
The  high  chaste  visions  that  have  filled  my  sight 
Are  fled  for  ever  like  forgotten  things.  .  .    . 
I  have  not  known  great  gladness,  or  distress, 
And  dove-like  peace  has  stayed  on  silver  wings ; 

But  in  the  twilight  silences  I  long 

To  warm  my  cold  hands  at  the  hearth  of  love, 

To  hear  again  the  pleading  of  a  song  ; 


THE  SISTERHOOD 

I  dream  of  children  whom  I  would  not  bear, 
And  my  chill  death  in  life  I  weary  of ; 
As  if  within  a  grave  my  soul  took  root, — 
I  am  a  tree  that  blossomed  and  was  fair, 
I  am  the  flowers  that  fell  and  left  no  fruit. 


THE   WIFE 

As  waters  whirl  and  roughen  where  they  meet 
When  a  calm  stream  into  a  river  swerves, 
Leaving  its   course  that  winds  through  meadows 

sweet 

To  join  a  mightier  current  which  has  torn 
Its  deep  swift  length,  world-long,  through  rock- 
bound  curves, 

On  towards  the  final  sea — are  these,  my  days, 
When  youth  flows  into  age,  and  I  am  borne 

Through  the  last  channel's  sure  relentless  ways. 
116 


THE   SISTERHOOD 

Peace  I  have  had  the  while  my  years  ran  on 
Along  the  low  shores  of  the  fertile  land, 
And  soon  again,  beneath  a  wintry  sun, 
The  cold  inevitable  peace  of  age 
Shall    mark   my  seaward   course.  ...  I  under- 
stand. .  .  . 

As  waters  whirl  and  roughen, — even  so, 
My  life  is  troubled  by  a  sullen  rage 
That  age  must  come  so  soon,  and  youth  must  go. 

I  leave  so  much, — I,  who  have  borne  the  cares 
Of  home-making  this  long  time  on  my  heart, — 
A  husband  still  in  youth  although  he  bears 
More   years    than   I ;    and    children    who   have 

grown 

A  little  heedless  of  my  duteous  part 
In  giving  them  their  heritage  of  life  ; 
Now  all  seems  futile  as  I  stand  alone — 

A  useless  mother  and  an  ageing  wife. 
117 


THE   SISTERHOOD 

Oh,  then,  farewell, — my  service-laden  years  ! — 

That  after  all  I  am  not  sad  to  leave, 

Despite  these  childish  and  uncertain  tears ; 

For  at  the  altar  was  my  freedom  slain, 

My  dreams  have  all  been  shattered  past  retrieve, 

And  servitude  has  dulled  and  broken  me.  .  .  . 

I  am  a  cloud  that  sends  a  little  rain 

To  bring  forth  harvests  I  shall  never  see. 

THE    COURTESAN 

Night  passes ;  now  the  thin  and  argent  light 
Drifts  from    the    East,   like    smoke   by  breezes 

blown 

Forth  from  a  valley  where  camp-fires  are  bright, 
Over  the  flame-illumined  hills  of  dawn. 
Night  passes  ;  and  at  last  am  I  alone, 
And  shivering  beside  my  window  here, 
Where  every  morning  with  the  curtains  drawn 

I  crouch  and  watch  the  last  star  disappear. 
118 


THE   SISTERHOOD 

Stars  were  my  birthright ;  I  was  born  to  live 
Beneath  their  glow ;  at  dusk  my  soul  awakes, 
And  stirred  and  made  a  little  mad  I  give 
Myself  each  time,  expectant  and  anew, 
To  one  who  has  not  come.  .  .  .  No  other  slakes 
The  restlessness  of  my  desire  for  him  ; 
Never  did  maiden  wait  for  knight  to  woo 
With  lonelier  heart  or  eyes  more  often  dim. 

Dream-time  is  passing,  and  the  sweet  stars  rove 

Ever  a  little  higher  in  the  sky, 

While  through  the  fields   of  night    I    seek   for 

love. 

My  soul  and  body  flame  before  a  face.  .  .  . 
But  ere  the  dawn  I  hear  the  old,  old  cry 
That  first  in  childhood  urged  my  lips  to  kiss, 
And  urged  my  feet  into  the  market-place 
Where    all    men    come,  and  where,   perchance, 
he  is, 

119 


THE   SISTERHOOD 

Now  I  am  one  with  all  who  sinned  my  sin, — 
With  vultures,  drunkards,  thieves,  and  girls  in 

tears, 
With  great   dead  queens,  and  lovers  who  have 

been 

Stayed  for  all  time  in  tales  and  poetry.  .  .  . 
But  till  the  Scythe  mow  down  my  weed-like  years 
I  watch  for  one  across  the  barren  sands, — 
Keeping  a  shrine  beside  a  sterile  sea, 
Tending  a  sacred  flame  with  impious  hands. 


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